


The Blue of His Eyes

by CharlieBravoWhiskey



Series: We Are Like Chameleons [1]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, M/M, Tumblr, prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-03
Updated: 2013-02-08
Packaged: 2017-11-23 11:20:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/621560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CharlieBravoWhiskey/pseuds/CharlieBravoWhiskey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What were these drawings to him?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Blank Page

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BootsnBlossoms](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BootsnBlossoms/gifts), [Kryptaria](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kryptaria/gifts).



> I blame bootsnblossoms for the prompt and her partner-in-crime, Kryptaria for egging me on. 
> 
> "Oooh, memes! "paint me" for either Sherlock, 00Q, or The Hobbit:)
> 
> Leave a “Paint Me” in my ask, and I’ll write a drabble about one character drawing a picture of another."
> 
> 1\. Nothing is mine.  
> 2\. Nothing has been Brit-picked.  
> 3\. Nothing has been Beta-read.  
> 4\. I wrote this very quickly without a second read through.  
> 5\. See something wonky? Let me know.  
> 6\. I am so, so sorry.

Q loved his secrets.  He had to if he wanted to continue working in MI6.  But a person could only stare at a computer screen for a certain amount of time before going crazy.   During those rare and precious moments where he could find the time, Q would secret himself away and settle in a small but hidden parklet outside the compound.  There he would bring out his sketchbook and his colored pencils, watching the citizens of London pass him by unnoticed until something caught Q’s eye causing him to bring pencil to paper.  
  
Q relished the feeling of anticipation, the first mark of a pencil against that blank page, the look, smell and feel of it.  It was electrifying, terrifying and oh so different than coding.  Q loved and hated it at the same time.  What were these drawings to him?    
  
He carried the habit with him throughout his childhood, escaping the cold and vast Holmes mansion whenever it was too much for him.  Most often, Sherlock would join him and suggested interesting things for his baby brother to sketch (diagrams of leaves, grass, insects, pieces of bark, etc).  On very rare occasions, Mycroft would join his brothers, too weary and sad to prevent their parents from shredding each other to pieces.  It was on these outings that Mycroft would suggest to sketch portraits of people.   His first two portraits were naturally of his older brothers.  
  
Other attempts at portraits included his parents: one while they were in the midst of another blow-up; another of their mother, sitting in her chair, eyes cast down, tears falling; one of their father, red-faced and angry.  When their father found the sketchbook, he ripped it in half, threw it in Q’s face and told him that only fairies engaged in such artistic endeavours.    
  
Before their father could slap Q across the face, Sherlock and Mycroft had stepped in their father’s path, arms crossed until the old man, drunk and bitter left them alone.  It wasn’t too long after that when their father left them for good.  It was almost a sigh of relief for all of them when the police came to the manor to bring their mother in to identify their father.  Mycroft went with her and at sixteen years old was now the man of the house.  
  
Sherlock sat next to his baby brother, his thin arms around Q’s bony shoulders.  Q was trying very hard not to cry, thinking it was his fault that their father was dead.  Sherlock could only comfort him with gestures, words were beyond him.  When Mycroft and their mother came back, Henriette Holmes was a changed woman.  She stood taller, straighter and held herself with a severeness that shot coldness through the younger Holmes’ bodies.  She barely acknowledged her sons presence and kept mostly to herself.    
  
Before retreating to her rooms Henriette bestowed Q a new sketchbook with a set of colored pencils; Sherlock with a proper chemistry set; and Mycroft, his first properly fitting three piece suit.  She patted each of her sons lightly and disappeared into her rooms.  Mycroft looked at his younger brothers, trying not to let the defeat show in his eyes.    
  
Q knew better and when he went to sleep later on that night, he drew Mycroft’s expression down to a tee.  
  
Nearly twenty years later, Q felt he had perfected his portraits.  He filled many sketchbooks of just his brothers alone:  Sherlock’s ever-changing eyes fascinated him; Mycroft’s almost-smile; he was able to draw their mother as well, severe expression and all.  It gave him no comfort to do these drawings but Q felt it was in his best interest to draw her as well.    
  
Q flipped through his sketchbooks and marveled at the changes that he and his brothers went through.  Sherlock was no longer sneering and cold nor was Mycroft that haughty.  Rough edges had been smoothed away when Sherlock forced himself into exile.  A desperation over took his middle brother and a sadness, long since passed crept back into Mycroft’s eyes.    
  
It was harder for Q to sketch Dr. Watson.  All the heartbreak was plainly etched on his face.  When Sherlock came back from his war against Moriarty, Q showed him all the sketches with John, quietly admonishing him for lying to the good doctor.  He wasn’t surprised at all when John punched Sherlock before pulling him into a searing kiss.    
  
Q, as a silent favor to Sherlock, had switched off all of Mycroft’s cameras.  He smirked when Mycroft came stomping into Q Branch demanding that they be switched back on.  Q merely smiled at Mycroft’s sputtering, eyes bright behind his thick glasses and reminded his eldest brother that some moments needed to remain private, even to the unofficial head of the British Government.  Mycroft nodded curtly and excused himself, leaving a quaking trail of interns in his wake.    
  
Q gave his brother a small salute before turning back to his computer screens, a smile on his pale face.    
  
All should have gone back to normal but then James Bond “died” and Raoul Silva happened, M died and it all went to hell.


	2. The Blue of His Eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Q dreamed in sharp, crisp colors. Blue dominated the theme of his dreams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just as a point of reference, Mycroft was 16 to Sherlock’s 11 to Q’s 9. I have no working knowledge of London. I don’t know if there is an unused footbridge like the one I’ve written in here. Also, I sure wish I was an artist. I’d love to show y’all the sketches Q draws.

Q’s mobile chimed gently.  He opened his eyes, the world was dark and blurry as he fumbled first for his glasses and then his mobile.  
  
 _Are you alright? - SH_  
  
Q blinked at the brightness of the text and then smiled, even after all this time, Sherlock insisted on signing off with his name.  
  
 _Yes, I am.  I little bruised and sore but otherwise fine.  - QH_  
  
Sherlock’s answering text came rapidly.  
  
 _I was concerned after hearing that your predecessor had perished.  - SH_  
  
Q frowned, remembering how he had found his boss under the rubble, blue eyes wide with fear and cloudy with death.  He was in the midst of pulling out a file that held the most prominent projects when Silva’s blast threw them all to the ground, whiting out their vision.  
  
They were the staff who stayed behind while field agents were the ones who risked it all for Queen and Country.  The danger was never supposed to come to them.  A layer of protection and security blanketed them in relative safety.  Q had never seen a dead body before.   _Sherlock would be so fascinated_ , Q thought.   _He would want samples._  Slowly, his hearing - which hadn’t noticed was a dull roar - came back at almost full volume.  He heard the coughing, crying, the weak pleas for help.   _Mycroft would call them all weak._  Q drew in a painful breath, his vision coloring at the edges.   _Mummy will be so upset at me_ , Q thought hysterical with pain and shock.   _That will be a first._  
  
Q then pushed himself to his hands and knees, almost passing out again from the pain he felt.   _I have to get out.  I have to save what I can.  There might be another attack._  It was that final thought that pushed Q into action.  He pried the file out of his boss’s hands, said a quiet prayer and apologized that he couldn’t do more for the man as he limped to the exit.  Q’s mind was bright with trying to memorize which pieces of equipment could be salvaged and what couldn’t.  
  
The only saving grace was the timing of the attack.  Even during the early morning most staff hadn’t made it into their offices.  Q and his boss, however, had once again pulled an all-nighter, giddy over a development that would improve their weapons that went out with their agents.    
  
His mobile beeped again, bringing him out of his reverie.  
  
 _Q?  Do you need me to come over?  I can bring John if you think you need him.  - SH_  
  
To the outside world, Sherlock presented a cold facade, convinced that it was what protected him.  John had changed his mind; it wasn’t his fault that old habits died very hard.    
  
 _No, no.  I’m fine.  - QH_  
  
 _Promise me.  - SH_  
  
Q blinked.  This was a new side that he hadn’t seen from his middle brother.  He swallowed thickly before texting.  
  
 _I promise.  - QH_  
  
 _Mummy would be so disappointed if she outlived us all.  - SH_  
  
Q smiled grimly.  
  
 _Indeed.  Good morning, brother dear.  - QH_  
  
 _Good morning.  - SH_  
  
Q leaned against his headboard and watched as the sun slowly rose from the east, coloring the dark and inky London skyline in the barest shades of pinks and reds.  He sat up and stretched, feeling muscles unknot and tendons pop.  Q swung his legs over the bed and sat there looking at his wiggling toes.  He sat there for several moments until he heard a faint knocking at his door.  Puzzled, Q got up, wrapped his robe around him and slipped his mobile into his pocket, setting the distress signal in case he needed it.    
  
He almost got to the door, when Q heard a faint crack and as the door slowed opened.  Without thinking, Q slammed the door shut on the hand and bent it backwards.  He heard a muffled groan from the other side of the door before hearing a clipped voice call out.  
  
“Q.  Let me in,” James said.  
  
Q instantly relaxed and opened the door, still cautious.  After reassuring himself that no one was outside, he pulled the agent in and propelled him towards his couch.  With a groan, James sunk into the dark chocolate leather cushions and leaned his head back.    
  
“What are you doing here?” Q asked.  
  
“I’m coming to check on you,” James replied, eyes still closed.  
  
“I don’t need to be checked on,” Q said drily, his hands on his skinny hips.  
  
“Are your ears ringing?  Are you confused or disoriented?”  James shot back, ignoring the look.  
  
“I’m disoriented because it seems to be bloody o’fuck in the morning.  I’m confused as to why you are truly here in the first place and my ears aren’t ringing, thank you very much,” Q replied crisply.  After a beat, he asked, “Would you like some tea and perhaps some Paracetamol?”  
  
“Tea would be lovely,” James said as Q puttered around his kitchen.  It was only the second time Q and James had spoken.  
  
***

Later that evening, a sleek black car pulled up alongside Q has he waited for the light to change.  Q sighed, rolling his eyes and stepped into the waiting car without so much as an invitation.  Inside, he found not his elder brother but John Watson.  
  
“Dr. Watson?” Q asked.  
  
“Please, call me John,” he said and shook his hand.  
  
“What are you doing here?” he asked genuinely confused.  
  
John gave him a look which told Q volumes.   _He must’ve learned it from Sherlock_ , he thought amused.  Unlike his brothers however, John’s own look wasn’t  calculating or cutting.  John smiled as if reading Q’s thoughts.    
  
“It’s okay,” John said, “It happens all the time with them.  Speaking of your brothers, they badgered me into making sure that you were truly better after the attack.  Sherlock mentioned a concussion?”  
  
Q sighed, wanting to bristle and snap at John but knew the futility of the situation.  “I have been cleared by MI6’s physicians,” he said instead.  
  
John smiled again, making the crinkles near his blue eyes appear.  “Yes, I know.  Mycroft had your file forwarded to me this afternoon.  They mean well, you know,” he said with a slight smile. “Though Mycroft could stand a thing or about asking instead of assuming.”  Q smirked as John sighed.  “But thinking about it, I probably act the same way with my own sister.  So, I’ll try to keep this as quick as possible.”  
  
Q nodded, approvingly as John ran down the standard list of questions.  He then examined his eyes and his reflexes.    
  
“Okay, then.  You seem to be doing well.  Please don’t hesitate to call me if you feel dizzy or nauseous but you should be back to normal rather quickly,” John said as he put his stethoscope away.  
  
“Thank you, Doctor Watson,” Q said.  
  
“Q, please.  I told you, it’s John,” he said and then blushed.  “We’re practically family.”  
  
“Wait then, until you meet Mummy,” Q dryly said.  
  
“Oh, I can’t wait,” John said.  “Well, this must be your place,” he said, gesturing.  

“Would you like some tea?”  Q asked politely.

“Ah, no thank you.  Sherlock’s at a crime scene and that’s where I’m heading towards next,” John said.  
  
“Well, then.  Thank you for your concern and the check-up.  Please let my brothers know how I’m doing,” Q said, stepping out of the car.  
  
“Will do,” John said and smiled before the car drove away.    
  
***  
  
After M was buried and James truly reinstated as a field agent, Q was able to pause and take a breath.  Since relocating MI6 Headquarters, Q searched high and low for another place to do his sketching.  He found that particular place on a little used footbridge.  It overlooked the Thames, had an excellent view of London and was a reasonable distance away.    
  
Q was lost in his sketching to notice the shadow just out of his direct line of vision.  It was only when he turned did he catch 007 standing nearby, smoking and watching him.  Q sighed and began packing his things away when James said, “I’d like to see what you’ve drawn.”  
  
Q stopped.  He was very reticent to show his sketches to anyone but his brothers.  His mother never knew what her youngest son drew and she never asked.  “Why,” he asked, his fingers tapping rhythmically on his sketchbook.    
  
“You seem talented and I would like to see them,” James said, looking away from him.    
  
“I see,” Q replied slowly.  He thought for a few seconds, coming to a decision.  Q stood up and approached James with his sketchbook open to his latest work.  It is of a nondescript building off in the distance, grey stone, white trim and grimy windows.  But Q, to James’ untrained eye, transformed it into something miraculous, something unearthly, something surreal.  Q watched him as something shifted in the agent’s icy blue eyes.  “We should get back,” Q finally said and took his sketchbook back from James.  
  
“Thank you.  That was lovely.  You should consider....nevermind,” James said.  
  
“I should consider what?” Q asked him as they walked side by side back to MI6.  
  
“You should consider submitting something to an art gallery,” James said.  
  
“Why would I do that?” Q said, astonished.  He stopped and lightly tugged on James’ suit.  Q felt ridiculous doing so as if he was a boy tugging on his father’s suit jacket.  He blushed mightily when the thought crossed his mind.   _Mycroft and Sherlock would have a field day with this_ , he thought.  Q glanced up at a CCTV camera and much to his dismay, it was pointed straight at them.  He grimaced at the camera, imagining as Mycroft watched.  James glanced up to where Q was staring, an unasked question in his eyes.  
  
“Bloody Big Brother,” Q said, forgetting his original question.  
  
James hummed an agreement, as the camera focused in on him.  
  
***

  
Q dreamed in blurry sepia-tone, his subconscious, it seemed, needed glasses.  He once asked his brothers how their dreams were.  
  
“I can’t be bothered to remember my dreams,” Sherlock said dismissively.  “It’s neurons firing away sporadically, matching things and people we see in our day-to-day lives.  Other people try to interject meaning into dreams, but they’re useless.”  
  
Mycroft’s answer wasn’t much better.  
  
“No, I don’t remember my dreams nor do I wish to,” he said and went back to scanning the newspaper.  
  
While Sherlock may be right about dreams having no meaning, Q was interested in what his subconscious had in store for him night after night.  Interestingly enough, Q’s dreams of late featured one James Bond.  Q awoke and sighed, rubbing his hand over his face.   _What is he becoming to me_ , Q thought, his mind quickening to the puzzle.  Q had to admit that the man was starting to invade not just his dreams but his spare waking moments, taking to sketching the man in his sketchbook.  Q shifted a little uncomfortably in his bed at the implications.    
  
Q considered the man again.  James’ face was admittedly weathered than Q liked to admit; his ears stuck out just a bit much; the man’s mouth was in a perpetual tight-lipped smirk; and his blond hair was cropped a little too short for Q’s liking.    
  
But his eyes, his blue, blue icy eyes.  They drew a person to James and held them there while he decided whether or not to kill or seduce you.  They pierced and pinned people into place while James moved with feline grace.  His body was well hidden beneath his bespoke suits, belying the power underneath.  He was silent moving into a room and only announced his presence until he was ready, which was most likely too late for his adversary.    
  
Q thought long and hard about this agent, his hand moving in quick light strokes as James’ portrait materialized on the page.  He was deep in his sketch that he almost missed the tapping on his balcony window.  Startled, Q looked up to find the man standing on the balcony, dressed all in black.   _Am I going to have to install a security system on my balcony?_  Q thought irritably.  
  
“What?” he demanded as he let James in.  
  
“I was in the neighborhood,” James quipped.  
  
“On my balcony.  I have a mobile.  You could’ve tried to pick the locks again,” Q shot back.  
  
“I have to keep up my skills,” James said ignoring Q.  
  
“Do you ever rest?”  
  
“No, not really,” James said before asking.  “What were  you sketching?”  
  
“Nothing of importance to you,” Q retorted as his mobile chimed with an incoming text.  “Great, you’ve awakened Big Brother,” he muttered as he read the message.

_Do you require assistance?  - MH_

James didn’t bother with a reply, looking instead around Q’s bedroom.  He picked up a photograph of Q and his two brothers.  
  
“What exactly are you doing here again?”  Q asked, trying to keep the agent on task as he fired off a text.

 _No, thank you.  - QH_  
  
“I told you, i was in the neighborhood.”    
  
“At two in the morning?”  
  
“I couldn’t sleep,” James said instead.  “Are these your brothers?”  
  
“Mmm, yes, good deductive reasoning there, 007.  I can see why they made you a field agent,” Q said.  
  
He pointed at Sherlock, “Wasn’t he the so-called fake genius?  The one who supposedly committed suicide?”  
  
“Yes,” Q said, tersely and pulled the picture out of James’ hands.  
  
“Interesting,” he said, giving Q a piercing look.    
  
“Is there anything I can for you, Mr. Bond?”  
  
“Tea would be lovely,” James replied.  
  
Q sighed and walked into the kitchen, gently placing the picture on the countertop.    
  
“That seems to be the only picture you have in your flat,” James said, lightly tapping the picture.    
  
Q just hummed in response, not bothering with a proper reply.    
  
***  
  
Q’s time was filled more and more by James Bond, his ridiculous icy blue eyes and James’ tendency to make a mission go tits up.   _It’s like he does this to me on purpose_ , Q thought miserably after one particularly harrowing mission.    
  
“I think you’re doing this to me on purpose,” he said out loud the next time James came in.    
  
The man in question merely smirked and handed back Q’s equipment in a dozen neat pieces.  
  
“How the fuck did you manage to break it into twelve pieces when there was only two pieces to begin with?” Q cried, outraged.  
  
“Talent,” James said and winked before leaving the Q department.  Q turned to watch him leave and Q could’ve sworn that James put a bit of a wiggle in his walk.  Q could do nothing but let the heat rise in his pale face.    
  
“I’m going to kill him,” Q said, slumping forward and resting his head in his hands.  
  
 _I’m in trouble_ , he thought.  
  
That night, Q dreamed in sharp, crisp colors.  Blue dominated the theme of his dreams.  He woke frustrated, his need sharp and painful.  James’ name was on his lips as he came in the shower.


	3. The Sun in His Hair

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> James was dressed in a pair of faded blue jeans - which fit him quite nicely, thank you very much - a blue cardigan with a white oxford underneath. His shoes were black and looked recently polished. Q bit back a smile. It was the closest James Bond had to dressing down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Thanks to[mojoflower](http://archiveofourown.org/users/MojoFlower) for the nit-picking in the previous chapter and for the suggestions._
> 
> _Thank you for reading_

“Brother dear, you can’t keep brooding like this,” Mycroft said dismissively. “It’s positively maddening,” he said, punctuating his remark with a flip of his dark umbrella.  
  
“Well, perhaps you wouldn’t be tired of my _brooding_ if you kept your bloody cameras out of _my_ flat,” Q ground out. His fingers itched for his pencils and sketchbook, thinking about the stark whiteness of the blank page and the never-ending possibilities of his drawings. Q loved the subtle shades of blue that positively leapt from the pristine pages of his sketchbook; of how the reds were almost hot to the touch; and of how the greens soothed his tired eyes the most. Instead, here he was walking with his brother after an stilted dinner with him.  
  
John’s words came floating back through his mind. _He means well, even if he can’t actually express it,_ Q thought. He took a deep breath and held his temper in check. Which was, naturally, easier said than done.  
  
Mycroft merely hummed at Q’s silence and opened the door to the black car for his brother.  
  
“No thank you. I’ll take the Tube,” Q said politely.  
  
“Pedestrian,” his elder brother said and then frowned at the unintentional pun. “But no matter. If that is what you want to do, then that is what you want to do.”  
  
“Yes, well, thank you for your overwhelming stamp of approval. I greatly appreciate it,” Q said,  wondering if he could punch Mycroft in the face without consequences. _Sorry, John,_ Q thought. _I’ll try harder next time._  
  
“Good evening, Baby Brother,” Mycroft said ignoring Q’s tone and his unspoken thought.  
  
“Good evening, _Elder_ Brother,” Q said and spun on his heel. He was halfway home when he realized that he was being followed. He sighed, chiding himself for daydreaming, and turned to face his stalking elder brother, only to be greeted with a silver Aston Martin with the window rolled down.  
  
“But I thought that was destroyed at Skyfall!” Q blurted out before he could stop himself.  
  
“Good evening to you too,” James said smirking, blue eyes crinkling at the edges. “Would you like a ride?”  
  
Q was horribly flat-footed, red-faced, and speechless.  
  
“You’re not really going to take the Tube as you suggested to your older brother, are you?” James said, his amusement growing.  
  
“Why does everyone insist on spying on me?” Q asked exasperated, throwing his hands up. _I could strangle the whole lot of them._  
  
“You’re very easy to spy on and I suspect that your brothers are merely being protective of you,” James answered. “Now, are you getting in or not?”  
  
“Fine, fine,” Q said and slid into the car. “Seriously, though, I thought this car had been demolished.”  
  
James shrugged. “It’s not like there aren’t others out there,” was all he said as his eyes focused on the road.  
  
“Right,” Q replied. They fell into a silence as James maneuvered them around London. Q bit his lip trying to stifle the question. “Are the rumors true?”  Q finally asked, letting his curiosity get the better of him.  
  
“What rumors?” James cocked an eyebrow at Q innocently.  
  
“That the passenger side seat can be ejected through the roof,” Q replied not believing for a moment James’ innocent act.  
  
“Being the Quartermaster, you would know better than me,” James replied not bothering to hide the smile.  
  
“The plans didn’t survive the attack. And besides, that was the work of my predecessor - as was the exploding pen you keep sending in requests for,” Q said. “I’m still not making you an exploding pen or a hat with a steel rim!”  
  
“Pity. You should rethink your stance against exploding pens.”  
  
“Hmmm,” was all Q said, smirking.  
  
***  
  
“Thank you for the ride,” Q said when they pulled up. He fiddled with his keys trying to make a decision. “Would you like to come for some tea?”  
  
James quirked an eyebrow at him.  
  
“Or some other time,” Q muttered, his pale skin blooming with pink.  
  
“Yes, I would love some tea,” James replied chuckling. “You are adorable” he said as Q opened his flat.  
  
“Adorable? Really, now?”  Q said drily and blushed even harder. “I can be quite charming when I need to be. But I leave it for Sherlock to do.”  
  
“He’s your middle brother?”  
  
“Yes. He is most prickly at the best of times,” Q said as he went about fixing the tea.  
  
“And your eldest brother?”  
  
“Quite frightening,” Q said without skipping a beat.  
  
James quirked an eyebrow.  
  
“No, I mean it. I’m sure one day he’ll manage to kidnap you for a chat about me,” Q said and smiled benignly at James.  
  
“Kidnap?” James said, his eyebrows rising to his hairline.  
  
“Oh, most definitely. I’m quite surprised that he hasn’t done it already,” Q said, handing James his cup of tea. “Oh and when he does, try not to kill him. The British Government would be ever so displeased if you do.”  
  
James blinked at Q who continued to smile innocently at the other man. “What exactly does your brother do for a living?” James said at a loss. _Poor James. So out of your depth when dealing with the Holmes Family._ Q continued his puttering around the kitchen fixing the tea. He took down two mugs, examining both carefully before putting one into the sink and the other next to the teapot. Q chose another mug from the cupboard, a replica of his mug at headquarters this time with the letter “H.”  James cleared his throat bringing Q back to the conversation.  
  
“Hmmm? Oh, right. I can’t tell you that,” Q said absently and smiled at James. The kettle announced its readiness and Q went to work with the tea.  
  
“Can’t or won’t?” James said carefully eyeing the younger man. Q’s hair was in a right state today, seemingly having a life of its own.  Q could just see the wheels turning in James’ head. _Why yes, 007, I do know what a comb is and stop smirking at me!_  
  
“Yes,” Q said and gave him a crooked grin. He sat down across from James, handing him tea and examined his own drink, dark, steaming and inviting. Q took honey and spooned three dollops of the viscous amber substance into his tea. He watched as the honey slowly slid off the spoon and into steaming liquid. Q stirred the tea before adding a splash of milk into the cup, turning the liquid a pale brown color. He brought the cup to his lips and took a tentative sip and sighed blissfully before he realized that James was intently watching his every move. James’ vivid blue eyes met Q’s jade green eyes. Q blushed and set his cup back down, still holding it for the warmth.  
  
“Q, I do believe you are a walking contradiction,” James said, thickly. He picked up his cup and drank slowly.  
  
Q couldn’t help but feel the butterflies in his stomach as he watched James. _What is going on,_ he thought desperately. He felt out of his league, his quicksilver mind coming to a spectacular halt. Q smiled again and fiddled with his mug.  
  
His mobile chimed softly in his jacket pocket. James arched an eyebrow at him. Q just smiled at him and left his mobile in his pocket. The text, he was betting, was from Sherlock. “Aren’t we all walking contradictions?” Q responded. “Just because I am a computer genius doesn’t mean that I want to constantly be in front of a computer working.”  
  
James just shrugged. “I never pictured you as an artistic type.”  
  
“What do you picture me doing then?” Q said before he had the chance to think about what he said.  
  
James cocked an eyebrow and smiled. _Oh, no,_ Q thought desperately. _How do I extract myself from this?_  
  
Q’s mobile chimed thrice more causing him to roll his eyes. James smiled again. “You should answer that before the other person has a coronary.”  
  
“Ten pounds says it’s one of my brothers,” Q muttered darkly while James chuckled.  
  
 _Well? Have you kissed him yet? - SH_  
  
 _I am willing to help move things along, if you require it. -SH_  
  
 _John tells me that I should be minding my own business.  Should I? -SH_  
  
 _Stop ignoring me. I will go to drastic measures if you don’t answer me. - SH_  
  
Q stared at his phone, panic setting in.  
  
“What?” James asked, noting Q’s wide-eyed outrage and pursed lips.  
  
“Nothing,” Q said quickly as he typed out a response, his ears still a bright shade of pink.  
  
 _Shut up and stop spying on me. That goes for you too, Mycroft. If either of you do anything I will make sure your internet connection never works properly. - QH_  
  
 _As you wish. - SH_  
  
 _If you insist. - MH_  
  
Q sighed, praying for patience. He looked at James who was staring back at him, an unreadable look on his face. “Do you ever want to kill people after your mission is complete?” Q said, unable to keep his mouth shut.  
  
“Only if they annoy me,” James replied, amusement crinkling his eyes.  
  
“I’m quite sure my mother would disapprove if I murdered my brothers,” Q said and laughed, tension leaving his body.  
  
James smiled and took a sip of his tea. “Are they up at all odd hours of the day?”  
  
“Sherlock never sleeps properly, despite what his partner does. Mycroft...well, he might as well never sleep at all,” Q said easily brushing the question off.  
  
James gave him a calculating look.    
  
“What?”  
  
“There’s something you’re not telling me,” James said, narrowing his eyes.  
  
Q just smiled. “I’m sure that I don’t know what you mean.”  
  
“No, I’m sure you don’t,” James said, his amusement evident.  
  
***  
  
“Honestly, Little Brother, when are you going to tell him?” Sherlock said, propping his feet up on Q’s coffee table.  
  
“Has it crossed your mind that perhaps your brother wouldn’t like your meddling in his life?” John said as he pushed Sherlock’s feet off the table.  
  
Q smiled at John in thanks as he handed him his tea.  
  
“I mean honestly, sometimes you can be just as bad as Mycroft.  Have you thought about that?” John said obviously gathering a head of steam.  
  
“I think you should tell him before I do,” Sherlock said ignoring John.  
  
“You do that and see that you won’t be sleeping in our bed!” John snapped as he set the mug down abruptly on the table.  
  
Q grinned widely as Sherlock turned red and made to retort.  
  
“Oh, I wouldn’t do that, Brother dear,” Q said.  “John looks very serious about his threat.”  
  
Sherlock snapped his mouth shut and glared at the other two men in the room.    
  
“Yes, yes, yes.  You’ll find a way to avenge yourself upon me later.  I get it, Sherlock.  Okay?” John said sighing.   Q couldn’t help the bark of laughter at Sherlock’s story face and when his brother turned his countenance at him he smothered his giggles as best as he good.  “Q, as much as I hate to admit it, Sherlock is right.  Shut it,” John said, pointing a finger at Sherlock.  He turned his attention back to the youngest Holmes.  “For better or for worse, you really should let him know.”  
  
“Oh, yes.  Like he should take advice from you.  Mr. I’m-Not-Gay,” Sherlock retorted.  
  
John sighed wishing he could gag his partner’s mouth.  “Yes, yes.  Kettle meet pot.  Shut it now.  And let’s not bring _you_ into this conversation, shall we?  Your brother invited us here for dinner not to needle him with our thoughts about his love life!”  
  
Sherlock turned away from John as he looked out Q’s window.  Q bit back laughter as he watched the exchange from the kitchen. He had no doubt that his brother was watching his every move in the window’s reflection. Q smiled cheekily at his brother’s back, earning him a change in posture.  
  
“Come on, Doctor Watson, let’s leave my grumpy brother and set the table,” Q said needling Sherlock slightly.  
  
John sighed and smiled, “I told you to call me John.”  
  
“Right,” Q said. “My apologies.”  
  
John smiled again, showing straight white teeth that contrasted the pink hues of his skin. _I wonder if he’ll let me draw him again. Properly this time,_ Q thought and filed away the question for later. “If you are to call me John, then you must tell me your name - your real name. Surely, it isn’t Q!”  
  
Q stopped cold as Sherlock made a small sound of distress. John looked back from brother to brother, embarrassed to know that he had somehow hit a nerve.  
  
“I’m sorry. You don’t need to tell me,” John said stammering his apologies.  
  
Q took a deep breathe. “It’s Quennel, actually,” he said. “It’s French for little oak tree. Please don’t apologize. You had no idea and I’m sure that Sherlock never told you.” John remained silent, his face flushed as Sherlock scowled. “Our mother is French and wanted to honor her heritage.”  
  
“Father never approved,” Sherlock said, his voice sharp and quiet. His eyes turned a shade of stormy grey and belied the anger and anguish underneath.  
  
“There were many things that Father never approved,” Q said, smiling crookedly, his green eyes tired.  
  
“No, John, don’t apologize,” Sherlock said. Q looked up registering the surprise on John’s face. Sherlock sat down beside John and took his hand.  
  
Q smiled a little at John’s blush before continuing, “Father...was a drunk, a very mean, nasty, and abusive drunk. Sherlock tells me that you know a bit of what that’s like.”  
  
John nodded, his kind face turning hard. _There’s a story there,_ thought Q, _but isn’t there always a story?_  
  
“Father thought that by naming me a French name that she was disregarding our English heritage. He even thought that our mother had cheated on him and I was the result,” Q said, his eyes turning distant at the painful memories. “I chose Q as a name to placate our father, but nothing I ever did was good enough for the bastard. It’s ironic that he thinks mother cheated on him when he was the one who cheated on her. He’s a nice enough person, a bit twitchy but ultimately a kind hearted person,” Q said thinking about they shy man. He shook his head, clearing the cobwebs. “But that’s for another day. Perhaps, I can convince him to come around.”  
  
Sherlock shrugged and indicated for Q to continue. “It wasn’t a hardship when the police told us of his death, though it changed Mother and not for the better, I’m sorry to say.” Q fiddled with the buttons of his cardigan, he looked up to find the two of them staring at him. He smiled sadly. “Families, you can love them all you want but sometimes they aren’t the best for you.  
  
***  
  
As Q sat in bed later that night, he thought about what his words to Sherlock and John. He did love his parents, but he loved them from a distance. Every interaction with his mother was painful at best and a horrific nightmare at worst.  
  
It was nothing, however, to his childhood. Q sighed as he absently rubbed a scar that his father gave him one Christmas.  
  
Q startled as his mobile chimed on his bedside table. Frowning, he brought it close to his face and peered at the screen.  
  
 _I’m in the neighborhood. Let me in?_  
  
Q puzzled over the message as another one came through.  
  
 _It’s James, by the way._  
  
Q smiled, feeling  his toes curl slightly and his face heat up.  
  
 _You do know that it’s after midnight? - QH_  
  
 _Yes, I do. But you specifically requested that I at least text or call before showing up on your doorstep._  
  
Q smiled.  
  
 _I did indeed. - QH_  
  
 _Will you let me in?_  
  
 _Just a tick. - QH_  
  
Q got up, switching on more lights and padded to his front door. He peered through the peephole and saw James standing patiently waiting. He smiled again, before unlocking the door.  
  
“Come in,” Q said.  
  
“Thank you,” James replied. “Why do you sign your texts? I know who you are.”  
  
“Habit,” Q replied. “Well, what brings you here?”  
  
James was dressed in a pair of faded blue jeans - which fit him quite nicely, thank you very much - a blue cardigan with a white oxford underneath. His shoes were black and looked recently polished. Q bit back a smile. It was the closest James Bond had to dressing down.  
  
“What?” James asked, noticing Q’s smile.  
  
“Nothing. Going somewhere special?” Q teased.  
  
“In fact, I was,” James said, tossing Q his own smirk.  
  
“Oh? Well, thank you for stopping at my flat before you went to that somewhere special,” Q said, pushing down his disappointment.  
  
James gave him a blank look before crowding into his space. Q backed up, his back hitting his front door before he stopped. Q blinked, his eyes growing larger behind his glasses.  
  
“What are you doing?” Q said, trying not to squeak.  
  
“Idiot, I meant your flat was the somewhere special,” James said, his icy blue eyes bored holes into Q.  
  
Q swallowed, licking his lips. “Explain,” he finally said, his eyes still large as saucers.  
  
“You’ve been....occupying my thoughts for quite sometime Q. You know me, or at least my standard procedures. I see something or someone I like and I automatically take it or her. But with you...you are different. I seem to be playing by your rules and not mine. What exactly are you doing to me?” James said, his voice dropping into a growl.  
  
“I...I’m not doing anything!” Q said, almost squeaking.  
  
“No, you’re not...you are completely and utterly fascinating. Once I think I have you figured out, you surprise me with something else, something I haven’t thought of,” James said, leaning even closer.  
  
Q bit his lip before pushing himself off the wall and into James’ arms, pressing his lips against James’. James surprised at Q’s initiative almost stumbled as the backs of his knees met the couch. They went sprawling down together with Q on top. Finally, Q leaned back, panting while they stared at each other.  
  
“I...I’ve never done that before,” Q said making to move off James’ lap.  
  
James smiled, letting his hand settle on Q’s hip. “Well, there’s a first time for everything,” he said and leaned up to kiss a grinning Q.  
  
Somewhere in Q’s flat, his mobile chimed three times before finally settling into silence.  
  
****  
  
 _Two weeks later - Somewhere in Spain_  
  
James was resting in the shadow of a palm tree. His eyes were half-lidded as he watched Q sketch quickly. Q saw him watching and smiled at him. He lightly slapped the hand that was inching its way towards his unprotected foot.  
  
“Stop that,” Q admonished him.  
  
“No, it’s fun to make you squirm,” James said, his eyes turning a deeper blue.  
  
“There’s plenty enough time for that, Mr. Bond,” Q quipped.  
  
James sighed dramatically and said, “as you wish.”  
  
Q ignored the unspoken jibe and continued to work on his sketch. James was wearing form fitting black swim trunks and not much else. His head was propped up by his arm, displaying his heavily muscled arm and torso. Q lightly penciled in the scars that were visible on his torso, making a mental note to trace them later in bed.  
  
The thought alone brought a scarlet blush upon his cheeks.  
  
James saw the blush but mercifully remained quite. He would tease the genius later.  
  
“There,” Q said and leaned back, resting against the palm tree.  
  
“Can I look?” James asked.  
  
“Of course,” Q said and handed him his sketchbook.  
  
The drawing James found there took his breath away. Never had he seen himself rendered in such a manner. Flaws that he saw in himself had been transformed by Q’s deft hand into something beautiful. James swallowed several times before handing the sketchbook back to Q.  
  
“Thank you,” James said gruffly.  
  
“You’re welcome,” Q replied, smiling sincerely. “That’s how you look to me. Beautiful. Scarred. Powerful and vulnerable.”  
  
This time is was James’ turn to smile as he looked up at Q, the sun in his hair.  
  
\- End -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Text #1: 
> 
> _Finally! You owe me, Sherlock. - MH_
> 
> Text #2:  
>  _I do not. - SH_
> 
> Text #3:  
>  _Boys. Leave your brother alone. - JW_

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading and egging me on. ;) All feedback is greatly appreciated.


End file.
